


Five Times Clint Barton Talked About Phil Coulson, and One Time He Didn't

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: What's In a Name? [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, 5 times +1, 5+1 Things, Fix-It, Happy Tower Time AU, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers help Clint get over Coulson by helping him talk about him.  And then there's the time where he can hardly talk at all.  Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1086415">Five Times Someone Had a Nickname For Clint Barton, and One Time They Didn't</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Clint Barton Talked About Phil Coulson, and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by [dazzledfirestar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dazzledfirestar/pseuds/Dazzledfirestar). And a huge thanks to everyone on the feelschat, for their help.
> 
> This is intended for the Avengers (MCU) verse, though it diverges from canon after the Avengers movie. It doesn't really take Iron Man 3, Thor 2, or Agents of Shield into account. Please forgive me.

**1\. Natasha Romanoff**

 

“Natasha?”

“Hm?”

Clint doesn’t look at her, can’t look at her. Not if he’s going to force the question out. “Do you really believe that whole ledger thing?”

He feels her turn her head, the weight of her gaze heavy on his temple. “You mean do I live my life by keeping account of who I owe and who owes me? Yes.”

He nods and feels her turn away again. She’d told him her philosophy years ago now, not long after he’d first brought her in. He knows she’s different from most people, knows she was raised not to form emotional attachments. He is also, just recently, starting to suspect that it’s bullshit. She may have training and she may not have had anyone to become attached _to_ , like, ever. But she is still human, and she still has emotions. She’s just better at hiding them and ignoring them, tamping them down in order to function the way she was taught.

“Do you sometimes think maybe there can be more than that?” he asks, not even sure if she’ll deign to answer.

It’s late, and they’ve been up for over fifty hours now, and the op from hell hadn’t just gone sideways. It had gone diagonal, and topsy-turvy, upside down and inside out and they’d had to run, dodging cars and bullets and some grenades, and now they’re holed up in a shack that wasn’t even a SHIELD safe house, just a decrepit old shelter they’d found when they couldn’t run any more. They’re tired and injured, and Clint’s feeling more than a little off-center, and he wants to pretend that he doesn’t know why, but he does, he really, really does. He wonders if she feels it too, at least a little.

She must, because after a lengthy silence, she admits, “Not for me, no. But maybe for other people.”

She’s not looking at him. Her attention is on the door, mostly, with occasional glances to the other end of the small room. He wonders if he’s one of the people that can have more, but has to acknowledge that he’s probably not. She may not be as unaffected as she thinks, but he is _too_ affected, and that’s not good at all. He’d better start coming around to her way of thinking.

She gets up then, crosses the room, and drops back down, her hands efficiently checking the bandage on Coulson’s head, then the one on his thigh. The senior agent is out, doesn’t even stir, and Natasha hisses at him in Russian, something sharp and commanding.

Clint wonders if it’s an order for the man to wake. If it is, it doesn’t work. Coulson remains unconscious, and Clint eyes the head wound with trepidation. The extraction team is on its way, but it will still be ten hours. Lots of shit can go wrong in ten hours.

Natasha stands and nudges Coulson with the toe of her boot, gentle. When nothing happens, she crosses back to Clint. Instead of sitting next to him though, she squats down in front of him. “Oh, moy malen'kiy ubiytsa.” She reaches out and runs a hand through his hair, tugging fondly. “Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

He shakes his head, because if she’s watching the door, nobody’s watching Coulson. But she puts her hands on his shoulders and maneuvers him down to the floor, and he lets her. He shifts so that he’s facing the door too, and she settles down next to him, one hand in his hair again, one hand on her gun.

He fights sleep for a while, but she is there and she’ll keep watch, and it’s been a really long fucking week. “Nat?” he slurs when he can no longer keep his eyes open. She doesn’t say anything, but he feels her hand still in his hair for a moment, before it twists a little in acknowledgment. “D’you think I could be one of those people?”

It takes her a really long time to answer, and he’s more asleep than awake when she does. “Yes. If you want to be.”

He nods sleepily, not even noticing the rough grain of the floor against his cheek. Yes, he thinks as he floats away. But it’s just one more thing that he shouldn’t want and can’t have. One more target just out of range.

Best not to take the shot at all.

 

 

**2\. Bruce Banner**

 

No one really mentions it when Clint emerges from his apartment. Clint’s not even sure they all know, because it’s entirely possible Tony and Bruce had been off the comms by that point. Tony probably wasn’t, since communication is built into his suit, but Bruce most likely was. It’s not like they have an earpiece that will fit both Bruce and the other guy, and he often doesn’t remember to put one in when he de-Hulks.

But everybody treats Clint just the same as they did the day before, and he appreciates that. It’s been months, and yeah, he misses the guy, but it’s not like he’s about to fall apart. Thor had just taken him by surprise, is all, and to hear something like that stated so baldly had been a shock to his system. He doesn’t even want to know how the Asgardian had figured it out.

A few days later he walks off the elevator and into the common living area and finds Bruce on one of the couches, surrounded by papers. He’s holding one sheet in his hand, but his unfocussed gaze and the lines of his body suggest he’s not really seeing it. There’s classical music coming from the speakers in the room, and Clint’s heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t let his steps falter though, just goes to the kitchen to grab a couple of leftover kebabs and biryani, and swears mildly when he realizes all the samosas are gone. Fucking Nat, fucking seriously. He heats his plate up in the microwave, and the beeping at the end finally seems to snap the doc out of his daze.

“Clint,” he says, turning to look across the space. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hey. Can I make you anything?” He knows Bruce will say no, but he reaches over to flip the kettle on anyway. Tea is always a safe bet.

“Oh. No. Thanks. I’m just . . .” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I needed to get out of the lab for a bit. I can move some of this stuff though.” He’s already scrambling to do just that, and Clint waves a hand.

“Dude, don’t sweat it. There’s plenty of room.”

Bruce nods and sits back, but he doesn’t pick his work back up. The silence stretches between them, punctuated by the mournful tones of the cello.

Had to be the fucking cello, right?

“Bach?” Clint asks, because it feels weird to just stand there, waiting for the water to boil.

“Yeah.” Bruce seems surprised, not that Clint blames him. It’s not like he knows a lot about classical music, but this one he recognizes. “You, uh. You like Bach?”

Clint shrugs. “Coulson did.” He doesn’t stutter over the past tense. He doesn’t slip much, anymore. “He, ah, had a thing with a cellist, actually, at one point.”

Bruce stills, just for a moment, and yep. He knows. But then he shifts to face Clint over the back of the couch, a whole host of questions in his eyes. “Tony might have mentioned that.”

Clint shrugs, then takes a bite of his food. “It wasn’t as serious as all that. They went out a few times, she got offered a job out of town, and that was that. He didn’t seem too upset, really.” He hadn’t even reprimanded Clint for prying. He’d just given his enigmatic half-smile and shrugged. _She was nice,_ he’d said, _but I don’t think it was ever going to be anything special._

He remembers the absurd flare of hope he’d felt, the way Coulson’s lips had twitched as he’d shooed Clint off his desk. He turns as the kettle boils, gets a mug from the cupboard, a random tea bag from the container on the counter, and a soda from the fridge. He takes it all into the living room, sets the tea in a clear spot on the coffee table by Bruce, and sits in one of the chairs with his plate and his Sprite.

“Thanks, bud,” Bruce mumbles, twisting back around now that Clint is in the same room. “That can’t have been easy on you,” he offers hesitantly.

Clint plays with his fork and doesn’t look at the doc. “It wasn’t a big ball of kittens and yarn, but it wasn’t so bad. It’s not like he walked around with a huge smile on his face, talking about getting laid or anything. Anyway, it was a while ago now.” And afterwards, there had been . . . things. Moments. Shared glances and uncertain smiles. Wry answers to flippant questions. Not enough to make him sure, but enough to make him wonder.

“Yeah,” Bruce says with a chuckle. “He hardly seemed the type.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “There’s a reason the junior agents call him— _called_ him, fuck—a robot. It was all professional, all the time.” Except when it wasn’t, and those rare glimpses into the man just make Clint ache all the more. He thinks of long days in safe houses, bad reality TV and moo shoo pork. Of the annual cupcake that had always appeared in his quarters, on or around his birthday, a matching one in Natasha’s on the anniversary of the day she came in. Of the Captain America key chain Clint had got a glimpse of just once. “But when it wasn’t . . .”

“Yeah,” Bruce says quietly, and Clint can feel him looking, no doubt with even more questions now. He doesn’t ask though, and Clint fills his mouth with food in case Bruce changes his mind.

Bruce just tilts his head back and says, “Jarvis, music off, please. And put whatever Clint wants to watch on the TV.”

Clint grins, because giving him free reign of programming is an awful idea. “Dog Cops, please, Jarvis,” he says, and pretends not to hear Bruce’s small huff of amusement.

 

 

**3\. Steve Rogers**

 

Clint contacts air traffic control at JFK, because you don’t fly through New York City without giving somebody a heads up. He’s exhausted, covered in dust and debris, but only one building had come down and they’d saved the Golden Gate Bridge, so go team, as Tony would say. He gets acknowledgment from the FAA, and steers the jet back to the tower.

Steve’s in the co-pilot’s seat, because he’s been re-learning how to fly. He picks things up quickly, adjusting to the computers and machines in a way that Clint knows even Tony boggles at. He doesn’t put a hand on the controls though, not while they’re navigating the city. When Clint touches the quinjet down with barely a bump—despite having turned off most of the computers in order to make a point about over-using technology—Steve shoots him a grin. “Not bad, flyboy. Who taught you how to do that?”

“SHIELD,” he says simply. “Guy named Pierce. Coulson insisted, in case an op went bad.” He swallows at the sudden memory, Coulson sending him to SHIELD’s airbase in Bumfuck, Montana, Clint jauntily saluting him from the open cargo door of the jet he was on. Coulson’s _Good job, Barton,_ when he’d returned, his scores better than some of the agency’s more experienced pilots.

Steve just unbuckles his seatbelt and puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder as he stands. Then he walks away, allowing Clint to power everything down in peace.

 

 

**4\. Tony Stark**

 

Clint’s on Tony duty. Pepper had caught him in the kitchen on her way out the door, some CEO super-emergency interrupting her sandwich construction. She’d passed the task onto him, and had asked him to deliver the food to Tony’s private workshop. Clint had been thinking about ham on rye himself, so he’d shrugged and agreed, because it was just as easy to make two sandwiches as one.

So he takes the sandwiches and sodas down to Tony’s playroom, tilting a smile at the wall when Jarvis lets him in and lowers the volume of the music. Tony doesn’t even seem to notice, wrapped up in something that’s spread out in pieces on the table. He’s muttering to himself, or maybe to his bots, because when one of them zips over to greet Clint, Tony finally looks up, his scowl lightening when he catches sight of his visitor.

“Apollo! What’s up?”

“Food,” Clint says succinctly, dropping the plate without much caring what it lands on.

Tony squawks and hastily rearranges things, then takes the soda from Clint. “You made me a sandwich?” he asks, eyeing the thing like Clint might have poisoned it.

“Pepper made you a sandwich,” he corrects. “I just, you know. Finished it.” He thinks about asking him what he’s working on, but knows the answer will be full of techno-jargon and genius-speak, so he doesn’t. “Which one’s this again?” he asks instead, tilting his head towards the bot that’s now nudging at his foot with its wheels.

“That’s Dummy,” Tony tells him. “He’s the most social of the three. You is sorting the components over there and Butterfingers is having a time out in his charging station for, well, living up to his name.”

 _“He,”_ Clint thinks with amusement. _Not “it.”_ It’s fitting really, because Dummy gives him a sort of nod in greeting and Butterfingers is hanging his head low, apparently dejected to be in the corner like a misbehaving child. Clint nods back at Dummy, and reaches out to rub a hand over his strut. The bot arches up into the touch like a cat.

“Don’t encourage him,” Tony says, pointing a wrench at Clint, who just smiles. Then Tony puts down the wrench and picks up the sandwich, completely neglecting the oil all over his hands.

“Geez, Tony,” Clint snaps, grabbing the sandwich away from him. “You trying to poison yourself? Wash your hands.” He points imperiously to the sink along the wall, looking at Tony with expectation until he relents.

“Wow, Jesus, you _sure_ you weren’t fucking Coulson? ‘Cause you’ve got the bossy eyebrow thing down pat.” He seems to catch himself the second it’s out of his mouth, but that’s a couple seconds too late.

Clint freezes, his face carefully devoid of emotion. Instead of saying anything though, he just points to the sink again, and Tony, miraculously, goes. He takes his time with the soap and water, and Clint moves to the stool that’s on the other side of the work table. He sits down, carefully relaxing the muscles that have tensed up, grateful that Tony is giving him some breathing room.

He comes back when Clint starts picking at his sandwich; the all clear message deliberately given, and thankfully understood. Neither of them say anything, and while it’s not tense, it’s not at all relaxed either. Clint’s plowing through his sandwich in the hopes of making an escape, and just as he’s about to start on the second half, Tony speaks.

“He threatened to taze me once,” he offers, his lips quirked up at the corners, as though being threatened by a SHIELD agent was a fond memory. Maybe it is, Clint doesn’t know. Coulson did have this way of being stupidly endearing, even when promising to take someone down. “Said he’d leave me to drool on the carpet while he watched . . . Fuck. Supernanny?”

Clint laughs because, yeah. Supernanny. Fucking Coulson. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, trying to tell Tony that this is okay. He’s okay. “He fucking loved that show.”

“Really? Supernanny? Because I figured it was just him being snarky. I don’t know. Maybe making some kind of commentary on how I’m a child and he was just on babysitting duty.”

Clint wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then pops the tab on his soda. “Could’ve been that too, honestly. But he did actually watch it. Any time we were on an op with downtime and cable, that was one of his go-to shows. That and Pawn Stars.”

“Not Nanny 911?”

Clint shakes his head. “Don’t know what the difference was, but no. Never that one.”

Tony opens his sandwich and takes out a slice of tomato, even though he’s several bites in already. “Wouldn’t have thought him for the junk TV type. Figured he’d go for 24, or NCIS, maybe. X-Files.”

“X-Files hasn’t been on the air for, like, ten years. And why would he want to watch spy shows or military investigations? He’d either draw too many parallels to real life, or bitch about the procedures they get wrong.”

“Yeah, okay, but Supernanny? Really?”

Clint shrugs. “It was something he could watch when he was home, and not have to worry about missing a plot point if he wasn’t. You get into shows like that real fast when you never know if you’re gonna be home one week to the next.”

“It’s called a TiVo. That way you don’t have to miss anything.”

“You really think he had a lot of free time after coming back from an op? Anyway, it’s just easier to not get involved in fake drama. In case an assignment goes pear-shaped and you’re stuck in medical for a month or two.”

Tony tilts his head, thinking about it. Clint appreciates the consideration, that he’s not just being laughed off. “Yeah. I can see that, I guess.” He goes back and eats the tomato he’d just removed, which is weird. But he’s Tony, so who knows what’s going on in his head.

Clint finishes his sandwich with two more bites, then stands, taking his soda and empty plate with him. He heads out, stopping at the security door. “You never know,” he says, turning to look at Tony over his shoulder. “It might have been a natural affinity for watching bratty, misbehaving children get put in their place by a firm, caring agen—adult.”

Tony barks a laugh and Clint shoots him a smile before leaving.

 

 

**5\. Thor**

 

Thor had apologized for the “Heart of Coul” incident. Clint had nodded, told him not to worry about it. Thor had opened his mouth, and Clint didn’t know if it was to apologize again, or try to explain, but either way, he hadn’t wanted to hear it. So he’d told Thor it was fine, _he_ was fine, and could they please not mention it again?

Thor had looked him over, agreed and, true to his word, has never brought it up again. He also hasn’t attempted to find Clint another nickname, but that’s all right. Clint’s not sure his heart could take it anyway.

So it surprises him when, one day, after he’s finished helping Thor perfect his aim with some throwing knives, he stops the alien god and asks, “When you said it—” He hesitates, but doesn’t clarify the “it.” He’s pretty sure Thor knows exactly what he’s talking about. “When you said it, did you mean I had a heart made of him, or for him or something, or did you mean that I was his heart?”

Thor carefully puts the knives down and looks Clint in the eye. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. But then he stops, thinking about it. Does it matter? Will either answer make him happy? Because it isn’t as if there’s anything he can do about it now.

But Steve had hit the nail on the head when he’d said the not knowing made it worse. That Clint is now stuck wondering if it had been real, or just his imagination. And he can’t do it anymore. He just can’t.

“Tell me.”

“Your heart was filled with him. Is still filled with him. That is what I meant.”

Clint nods, looking at the tips of his boots. Because he’d kind of figured that’s what Thor had meant, that Clint’s affection had been somehow obvious to him. That he hadn’t, in fact, meant that he’d somehow gleaned that Coulson had had any sort of affection for Clint. Why would he? Clint’s just another smart-ass punk. Talented and useful to SHIELD, sure, and even amusing to Coulson on occasion. But he isn’t the kind of guy people just fall for. Not for anything more than a night of fun.

There’s a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Clint forces himself to look up.

Thor’s eyes are kind, and sparkling, and he has a little smile hovering around the lines of his mouth. “But that doesn’t mean that the other is not also true.”

Clint stares at him, trying to understand. “Is it?” he asks, and hates that his voice shakes a little. He clears his throat and tries again. “Did he . . . Was I his heart?”

“I cannot know for certain, Clint Barton. But a man like you is not won easily. You guard your heart well. Would the son of Coul have earned such devotion had he not, in his heart, held you in the same regard?”

“But that’s . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s a romantic idea, Thor, but that’s not always how it works. Sometimes people do fall into unrequited, uh. Love.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It sucks, but it happens.”

“Not to someone with a heart such as yours.”

Clint drops his hand, squeezes it into a fist. _You have heart._ He breathes deeply, once, twice. Thor’s hand slides from his shoulder to the top of his arm, squeezing gently.

“Our hearts do speak to one another, my friend. Sometimes it just takes a while to hear them.”

 _And sometimes it takes too long,_ he thinks. He steps back, and Thor lets his hand fall away. Clint retreats, heading for the elevator, and the safety of his apartment.

He shouldn’t have asked. He doesn’t feel better at all.

 

 

**+1. Phil Coulson**

 

“Clint.”

Clint slides to his knees. There’s not a lot of room between his chair and the bed, and the metal frame is kind of digging into his chest. He does not care. Coulson’s hand is still in his. It’s cold and his grip his weak, but it’s _there_ , and Clint makes a sound in his throat that he doesn’t even know how to describe.

He’s looking at Coulson, because he has to. He can’t _not_ look at him. At his eyes and the lines around them; he remembers how they deepen when Coulson smiles, even if the tilt to his mouth doesn’t alter. His _mouth_. Clint’s eyes flick down, and yes, there’s a tiny smile there; pale, chapped lips curving up just a touch. There’s a scar too, Clint knows, faded and small, right at the hairline of his temple, and he looks, he looks carefully because if this isn’t Coulson then surely there’d be no scar, right?

But there is. The scar is there and perfect, and Clint hauls himself up, gets his feet under him so he’s a little taller, and stretches to place a kiss on that beautiful, affirming piece of skin.

He hears the ghost of a breath, a shaky exhale, and he pulls away, just a little, just enough to look Coulson in the eye. Some part of him is aware that the others are leaving, and he waits, waits for them to be gone, waits for Nat to finish herding them out the door.

It’s Steve’s voice he hears though, from the doorway. It’s quiet and respectful, and Clint thinks maybe it wasn’t Natasha who got them all moving after all. “It’s good to have you back, Agent Coulson.” Then there’s the quiet snick of the door, leaving them with nothing but the soft beeping of the monitors, the gentle hum of electricity.

“Clint.”

Clint shakes his head, because he can’t talk right now. Words are beyond him. He shifts instead, kissing Coulson’s forehead, allowing himself to linger. This time Coulson outright sighs, a happy little sound, and Clint smiles against his skin. He moves lower, dotting the circles beneath each eye with light kisses, and then moving to Coulson’s cheek. It’s rough with stubble and Clint has never seen him so scruffy. He releases a puff of air, feels the warmth as it rebounds, and then Coulson’s skin is sliding beneath him. He’s tilting his head, seeking, and Clint kisses his way over, meets him somewhere in the middle.

It’s chaste, as kisses go. It’s soft and warm, and a little too dry, but Coulson nips gently at Clint’s bottom lip and Clint outright _groans_. He makes himself pull back then, because if he doesn’t, it’s going to be too much too fast, and that’s not the sort of impression he’s looking to make here.

Finally, he forces a word out. “Sir.”

Coulson’s lips twitch at that, and the lines around his eyes crinkle, and Clint can’t _breathe_. “Don’t you think you should maybe call me Phil?” His voice is warm and amused, and just a little bit rough, and Clint can’t help but press forward for one more kiss.

“Phil,” he agrees as he pulls away again.

Phil’s hand tightens in his, pulling just a little, indicating that he wants Clint to stand up. Once he does, there’s another tug, forward this time, and fuck, there isn’t enough room for what Phil’s asking. It’s a standard hospital bed, and there’s sure to be scarring on his chest, and the last thing Clint wants to do is hurt him. But Phil tugs again and Clint doesn’t have the strength to resist.

He tumbles forward, carefully, catching himself on the mattress and drawing his legs up, one knee bent and lying across Phil’s legs. He slots his chin onto Phil’s shoulder, careful to avoid the area around his heart, and his eyes slide shut as lips touch his forehead in response.

“Do we need to talk about this?” The words are pressed into his skin, along with the heat of his breath, the warmth of his smile.

Clint shakes his head again. No. They really don’t.


End file.
